Classic Poem

How soft, how silent has the stream of time
Borne me unheeding on, since first I dream'd
Of poetry and glory in thy shade,
Scene of my earliest harpings? There, if oft,
(As through thy courts I took my nightly round,
Where thy embattled line of shadow hid
The moon's white glimmerings) on my charm'd ear
Have swell'd of thy triumphant minstrelsy
Some few faint notes; if one exulting chord
Of my touch'd heart has thrill'd in unison,
Shall I not cling unto thee? shall I cast
No strained glance on my adopted home,
Departing? Seat of calm delight, farewell!
Home of my muse, and of my friends! I ne'er
Shall see thee but with such a gush of soul
As flows from him who welcomes some dear face
Lost in his childhood. Yet not lost to me
Art thou: for still my heart exults to own thee,
And memory still, and friendship make thee mine.